Public Service Announcement | For Men, From Me

Dear Men and Undereducated Women,

There is a misconception about women and their hormonal cycle, namely, that there exists one week in a month that is a time fraught with hormones. We are expected to be slightly crazed and unreasonable during this time because of a sudden influx of extreme chemicals.

Now, this might be true to a certain extent. There is a time of the month that is distinctive. There are certain tell-tale signs: depression, crying, crankiness, etc. But let me tell you, it's the tip of a hormonal iceberg. It is, simply, a time of the month. See this picture?

Yeah. So that's the month long picture. Our bodies are always a hormonal circus. Yay! We have all of these different chemicals racing through our bodies at different times in different amounts and different ratios. It can make us happy, sad, angry, loving, suspicious, or just downright bonkers on any given day. There is a chemical reason for almost every emotion, but I don't expect any of you men to keep track of these things in that much detail. I simply mean to alert you to the fact that hormones are a constant source of inspiration for females.

So don't belittle us to being abnormal at one point in the month. We are delicately balanced creatures who ought to always be handled with gentleness and sincerity all the time. Every day is a new, exciting, hormonal adventure. It's the physical roller-coaster that never ends.

End of announcement.

Funniest Customer Service Experience To Date

The title? I know, I know. A big build up. But this is seriously the funniest thing that has happened to me in my corporate America experience. It didn't involve any errors on my part, which may be part of why I enjoyed this so. much. Ok, ok, I'll stop. I'll tell you the story now.


I answered the phone.

me: Hello, Doctor -------------------- office, this is Bridget, how may I help you?

her: Hi. I need to make an appointment for my father. He called me and left a message that he needs to see an eye doctor as soon as possible, so I want to make an appointment for him.

me: Ok. Have we seen your father before?

her: Yes.... I think it was last year.

me: Can I get his name?

*She gives me his name.*

me: ok, please hold while I pull his chart.

*puts phone on hold. looks for five minutes, but can't find it*

me: Thank you for holding. Can you spell his name for me? I can't seem to find his chart. 

*She patiently spells his name. I put her back on hold. I find chart buried in our vault of patients we haven't seen for five years. So much for the one year theory.*

me: Alright, I found it. Do you want the soonest possible appointment?

her: "Yes, please."

*we spend five minutes negotiating a time that works for her*

me: Ok, well, we'll see you then!

her: Oh, well, here's the thing. He doesn't know I'm making this appointment. And he can't find out that I did.

me: *stunned silence*

her: Hello?

me: Yes, sorry, still here. You said he can't know you made him the appointment?

her: Yes, that's IMPERATIVE. He'll be really, really mad if he finds out I made an appointment without asking his permission.

*I check the chart. He's 93 years old. Not a lot of killing power, but I suppose his daughter knows best.*

me: Ok. How shall we get him here, then?

her: Oh, I'll call him back and tell him to call you. Just lead him to believe that he was the first one that called and tell him that the soonest appointment you have is the one that we just made for him. He'll take it.

me, in my head: Yeah, because that's a fool-proof plan.
me, out loud: That sounds great. I'll wait for his call and take care of it.

her: Thanks!

I got off the phone, briefed my coworkers on the situation, stifling tears of laughter. Don't get me wrong, I was laughing. Just trying not to laugh so hard that I started crying. I was doing an ugly snort laugh, though. Not my proudest moment. Hey, it was Friday afternoon. Ten minutes later, the phone rang.

me: (see above phone greeting)

him, shouting: I CAN'T HEAR YOU. TALK LOUDER, HONEYBUNS.

me: Sorry, sir. Can I help you?

him: WHAT?

me: *sigh* CAN I HELP YOU?

him: YES. I WANT TO MAKE AN APPOINTMENT.

me: HAVE WE SEEN YOU BEFORE?

him: NO, I DON'T NEED YOU TO CLEAN MY FLOOR.

me, figuring out this was the 93 year old man, left that question alone. I told him that I needed to go get his chart. Of course, this was a complete lie. Well, I had to go get it, but by "go get it," I mean I had to reach across my desk to where I had put his chart earlier. I put him on hold and counted off 30 seconds.

me: OK, WHEN DO YOU WANT TO COME IN? THE FIRST AVAILABLE APPOINTMENT IS AT ----------- on ------------.

him: WHEN?

me: repeated time and date.

him: WHEN???

me: repeated time and date.

him: OH! I'LL BE THERE, SWEET CHEEKS. DON'T YOU WORRY. YOU'RE JUST THE DARN CUTEST THING EVER. I LOVE THE WAY YOU OFFERED TO CLEAN MY FLOOR.

me: YOU'RE WELCOME, SIR.

Yes, working with patients can stink to high heaven. But days like today, it takes off years with laughter.

"911. What is your emergency?"

I was feeling fairly calm, happy, and confident. I had the morning off, so I had been able to sleep in and read old WWII letters written by relatives.

So when I sat down at work to call some patients, I never dreamed of the embarrassment that was in my future.

I dialed a 7 digit number.

It rang twice.

Then I heard, "911. What is your emergency?"

I panicked.

I slammed that phone back down with wide-eyed horror.

I had called 911.

When dialing a 7 digit number. Whaaaaaat????

Then the true horror settled in: I just hung up on a 911 dispatcher.

Without saying there wasn't an emergency.

Omigosh, they were going to come arrest me for prank calling 911!!!

I sat, staring at the phone.

I shakily confided in my coworker. "I, uh, just called 911 and then hung up on them..."

"You WHAT???," she laughed. "Why?"

"I have NO idea." I really didn't. I stared at the number I had dialed. There were 7 digits. There was a 911 in the number, but not only a 911.

About 30 seconds later, my phone rang. It was the Sheriff.

"Uh, hi."
"Hello, ma'am. We just received an emergency call from this number. Is everything alright?"
"Uh, yes. That was... I don't know what happened... I was calling a patient... and then... I don't know. I'm so, so, so sorry I hung up on you."
*10 second pause while the sheriff laughs at me*
"It's ok. Glad everyone is ok. Have a nice day, ma'am."
"Yes. I mean, thank you."

I made my coworker call that patient next. I wasn't willing to risk calling 911 again.

Yes. This is my life. It's really real. 

The Role of Nostalgia in Faith

This is technically part of my "visit to St. Gabe's" series, but it's so much more serious and philosophical that I felt the need to give it a more serious and philosophical title.

Ever since I left TAC, I have missed the feeling of sacredness and closeness to God at church. St. Michael's, while a great parish, feels a bit cold and distant to me. It isn't beautiful, it isn't warm and welcoming. It's white and green.

It also isn't super traditional. I mean it's traditional, but it isn't Latin, hymns, and incense (the last of which my asthmatic lungs appreciate). I haven't found the way to make it my happy place yet. The quiet and smallness of the earliest Sunday Mass are as close as it gets.

I believe God is there. I believe that He is just as present in the Eucharist at St. Michael's as anywhere else. I pray... but it requires a lot of focus and effort.

Kneeling during the Consecration today at St. Gabriel's, I realized that it is an easy place to believe and to pray. I am 100% comfortable, relaxed, and trusting. It was my parish from age 8 to age 19. I grew up there, not only from a child to a young adult, but I grew in my faith. I grew up as a Catholic there.

And it didn't used to be beautiful. It used to be a bingo hall. The chairs were covered in orangeish-brown pleather and were hooked together in long rows. We had computerized bells for the Consecration. It wasn't pretty. It wasn't super traditional. Heck, on some days, it wasn't even traditional. 

See? Not so traditional...

But it was home. It still is, somehow, even after all this time, my Church-y home. This realization led me to wonder: what is the role of nostalgia in faith?

It seems to hold some weight. Otherwise, why would I love St. Gabriel's so much? It wasn't beautiful when I was there, even though it is now. It has none of the things that I would normally consider "necessary" in a Church (Latin, hymns, etc.) Nevertheless, it is just as holy a place to me as Our Lady of the Most Holy Trinity Chapel on campus.

Why? Is it simply nostalgia? Is it simply a feeling or is it something more?

I don't have a definitive answer to this question. I am inclined to say that it is something more. Human beings are physical creatures. The Mass appeals to our senses. The architecture of a Church is intended to physically draw our eyes - and thereby, our hearts - up to God.

God, in His infinite wisdom, sent us His Son to show us the way to salvation. To physically die for us. To physically rise on the third day. 

Jesus instituted the Eucharist. He instituted the transubstantiation of bread and wine - physical things - into His Body, Blood, Soul, and Divinity.

He didn't do that because He is a physical being, because He isn't. He took on our nature and became flesh so that we could see Him. Hear Him. Touch Him. He did that for us because we are physical creatures.

It has been established in studies that physical things evoke memories in us. Places, smells, etc., have the power to remind us of times past. It's more than emotional feeling. It is a way in which we can connect and reconnect with things that are important - maybe things that that we have lost or missed.

That reconnection reminds us - at the very least, it reminds me - of the ever-present, ever-loving God that we have. He doesn't leave us and he doesn't change. When we go back to Him, we find him just as we left Him. Loving, forgiving, merciful, good... Everything to everyone.

When I go back to St. Gabriel's, I physically go back to where I learned to love Him. It helps me - inspires me - to love Him more.

A Visit to St. Gabe's, Part 2 (the lovey-dovey emotional part)

We switched parishes a few years ago. While I respected the family conclave decision, I have missed these people. These people hold a big place in my heart.

I was excited for the opportunity to visit them today at Mass. I was also nervous. I have this incredibly unusual anxiety that goes along with reuniting with old friends. You see, I LOVE people. I do. I love them soooooo much. It makes me nervous to see them again because... well... I'm afraid they won't love me anymore. Maybe this is silly. I'm terrified that someone I still love enormously will extend a hand and say "Good to see you again." I want them to want to hug me as much as I want to hug them. A handshake would be so sad.

So I was nervous. That's probably part of why I fell down the stairs (see Part 1). I was so nervous and wound-up that I stopped paying attention to where my feet were going.

But St. Gabe's was as welcoming and loving as ever. The "old gang" has come back with the return of the old choir director. I felt so loved. It was incredible and wonderful. It made me so happy. The surprise, followed by the huge smile, and the running toward me with arms wide open.

Excuse the extreme, uncharacteristic sap of this post. I was just so happy to see these people again. I felt like I had come home.

I'm going to go out with the choir director (who also was my voice teacher in high school) and his right hand man to catch up. We're going out for drinks. Last time I saw these people, I was 18. Weird that we can hang out at a bar together now. But so wonderful that the friendship is still there.

As Michael Smith and Amy Grant sing,

"And friends are friends forever
If the Lord's the Lord of them
And a friend will not say never
'Cause the welcome will not end
Though it's hard to let you go
In the Father's hands we know
That a lifetime's not too long to live as friends."

Cheesy. But wonderful and love-full.

A Visit to St. Gabe's, Part 1 (The funny part)

Today I went back to St. Gabe's for Mass. Just a visit to see the beautiful new church and some dear, dear, dear old friends. (more on that in Part 2)

I arrived in classic style. With a bang. Literally.

Yes, that's how the visit started. As I walked down the stairs, chatting with a woman I haven't seen in five years, I forgot to keep walking down the stairs. There were more stairs. I didn't walk like there were. Me, my three inch heels, and flippy skirt tumbled down in a pseudo-graceful heap. I say pseudo graceful because even though I was falling with incredible force, I managed to not flash anyone. Or swear. I let out a high scream, though. See? Graceful. But I was falling. So not so graceful.

My next adventure began when I genuflected to enter a pew. I went down... but couldn't get up. My heel had stuck in my aforementioned flippy skirt and I was stuck. I didn't want to rip my skirt, nor did I want to snag it and have the knit material bounce too high when the pressure finally released. If you can't picture that... well, then you probably aren't a girl. If you are a girl and you can't picture that, you obviously have never tried to genuflect.

Still can't picture it? Geez. Maybe it's just me. Shoot.

I repeatedly tried to unhook the skirt from the heel of my shoe. Every time I managed to unhook it and then adjusted to stand up, it would get re-attached. After about five minutes - ok, maybe 30 seconds which felt like five minutes - I ended up scooting into the pew on my knees until I could heave myself up with my arms on the back of the pew in front of me.

Subtlety is not my specialty. Neither is delicacy in behavior. I specialize in drama, don't ya know. :)

My Battle with Food

Hey! Long time, no write! I apologize... I've been busy with visiting family, lounging in the pool during these 110 degree days, and, OH YEAH, getting a job! I start in two weeks at an office that I have wanted to work at since I was 10. So yeah, I'm pretty excited!

But that's not what this blog post is about. It's about my life-long battle with food. Not with eating disorders, not with allergies, but with food. It confuses me.

I am a texture eater. I always have been, I always will be. I am also moderately picky... mostly about texture. What really gets me... and by "gets me", I mean "confuses the *$^# out of me" (I don't know what four-letter word those symbols represent. I just felt like putting them there...) is food with different textures combined.

Example 1: soup. With the exception of something like split pea, which is all one consistency (don't you DARE put ham or carrots in it... because then it will be relegated to the confusing food category), I choke on soup. I kid you not. Here's why, in a step-by-step breakdown.

I scoop the soup into my mouth. Immediately, I start thinking: there is liquid in my mouth. There are also solid foods in my mouth. What do I do?

Do I swallow the liquid and then chew the solid stuff? OR, do I hold it all in my mouth, chewing the solid stuff until it becomes squashed, and then swallow it all together? If I try to swallow the liquid, I inevitably end up swallowing solid food whole as well. If I try to chew it all, the liquid goes down the wrong pipe. In the confusion and chaos, things start sliding down my throat, hitting the back of it, and causing me to sputter everywhere. It's messy.

Consequently, I have had to adapt my soup eating process. I carefully pick out every piece of solid food, careful to drain out all of the liquid from my spoon before inserting the spoon into my mouth. Only after all of the solids have been removed and consumed from the bowl, I proceed to drink the broth like it's a warm, salty tea.

Example 2: gum. I know, I know, not technically a multi-textured food object but it still confuses the begeebers out of me. I put a piece of gum in my mouth and am ok until about 30 seconds later. I have this thing in my mouth and I'm chewing it, but I'm not allowed to swallow it. You cannot imagine the anxiety that accompanies this process. My mouth and throat are trying to make me swallow, but my brain keeps telling me not to swallow it or I'll choke and die. I start feeling all sweaty and hot.

Consequently, I gag. Repeatedly. Violently. Eye wateringly violent. It's awful. There is no solution to this problem. I avoid gum like arsenic.

Example 3: potato salad. Similar to soup, but even more confusing. You have crunchy stuff (celery), chewyish stuff (potatoes), and hardboiled eggs (squishy stuff). It all needs to be chewed, but to greater and lesser degrees. It isn't one texture or even two textures, but THREE. It's absolutely impossible.

(Not only is it different textures, but the different things are all different SIZES. WTH??? Who's sadistic idea was this?)

My brain cannot even deal with the complexity of the chewing process for potato salad. I end up swallowing large chunks of potato whole or inadvertently getting egg up my sinuses. (Don't ask, I don't know).

Thankfully, nature has given me a convenient way out of this embarrassing situation. Most potato salads are made with mayonnaise, which 99.9% of the time has soy in it, to which I am deathly allergic. It provides a convenient excuse that doesn't refer to my strange, apoplectic aversion to varied textures. I can get away with a semblance of normalcy with strangers this way.

You guys know the truth now. The ugly horrible truth of how I over-analyze my food. I have a problem. I have learned to live with it... but it isn't pretty.